


Cursed Angel

by Aceinspace2233



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale hurts, Cursed, Demons and Angels, Emotional, Gabriel is a dick, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, NSFW, aziraphale switching personalities, crowley in distress, cursed aziraphale, eventual NSFW, fluff spinkled in there, oh boy, tag along for the ride ig
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 03:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19737283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aceinspace2233/pseuds/Aceinspace2233
Summary: Aziraphale gets an unexpected shipment of books, and an unexpected curse. he's different, doesn't remember Crowley, and has a startling number of eyes and claws.in which the author has fun making monsters and emotions





	1. Monsters of Men

Inside the dusty and ancient shop sat a dusty and ancient angel, both by Earth’s standards of course. He was silently reading in his favorite dusty chair, his favorite ancient addition of Romeo and Juliet open between his palms. It was a peaceful Sunday. A silent Sunday. It was as if the world was holding its breath. The shop door opened and in stepped a delivery man.

“Mr. Fell?” he shouted into the seemingly empty shop. He heard a shifting and clanking from further in the shop, as if a small mountain had been disturbed and the ground around it was moving. 

Said mountain bustled his way to the front of the shop, smoothing down his vest and straightening his bow tie.

“Yes? What do you need?” ‘Mr. Fell’ asked, spying the package in the man’s hands.

“Delivery sir, it’s a bit heavy. I need you to sign for it.” the delivery man felt at ease in the angel’s presence, and handed him the clipboard and pen. After a quick signature the package was handed off and he was on his way. Mail never stopped so neither had he.

“New books!” Aziraphale exclaimed excitedly, his hands itching to tear the package open. 

He used the box cutter in his desk to open the unexpected delivery carefully, his eyes on the prize. The first three books in the box were ones of little interest, he would set these out for customers to buy, though he shivered at the thought. The next two were bibles, each with their own misprints and quirks, which he was delighted to add to the collection. the last book looked unassuming, however old and dark in coloration, but as soon as Aziraphale set his hands upon it, a pain like fire ran through his corporeal form. 

He tried to pry his hands from the book, throw it or drop it, at least something as he cried out. The pain not only reaching his human body, but his soul as well. He felt fear. Genuine terror race through him. He tried to take in the details of the book before it burned up in his hands, whatever curse was on that book still swarmed inside his skin. He could feel himself becoming faint, and all he could do was miracle the shop closed and a pillow on the ground. 

The world went black as the curse consumed him whole. 

-

Crowley had tried to phone Aziraphale three times in the last five days, only to be met with an automated voice saying Aziraphale couldn't be reached at the moment. Crowley was getting bitter and sad, and decided if the idiot angel didn't want to spend time with him or see him then so be it. He would go out and have his own fun, tempting people and tending to his plants. This however, was not fun. He found the idea of going outside exhausting, and the shaking of his plants infuriating, so he willed himself into the Bentley and decided a nice road trip would be an amazing idea.

Crowley was gone for seven days. He popped on over to France, hung out in Germany, had some fun in Italy. But each place he went, he was only reminded of Aziraphale at every turn. Restaurants, parks, skies, you name it, Crowley felt it. He curs- bles- he blamed the angel for his stupid mind and headed back to London. He had brought back many souvenirs, even a few for the angel (though he bought them without realizing and found them in the suitcase later.) The demon tried Aziraphale for the fourth time, thinking that maybe the angel was in the middle of a project and had finished over the time he was gone. 

-

Aziraphale awoke suddenly, and found that everything was wrong. His limbs felt out of place, his face felt burned and… crowded. His head throbbed as he tried to move to an upright position, and his vision blotted out for a second. He was scared and disoriented. Tea. He would make some tea. He slowly rose to his feet, mind firmly on the process of making tea. He stumbled into the kitchen at the back of the shop, his feet burning with the new pressure. Why had he been woken up again? What was that annoying sound? The ringing intensified now that Aziraphale’s ears started working again. 

He followed the terrible noise to the source, planning to silence it and make tea. He needed tea. He gazed longingly at the kitchen as he snatched the phone off the receiver. 

“Yes?” he asked, irritation showing through his now gruff voice. 

“A-Aziraphale?” came a timid reply, that voice sounded familiar but he couldn't place it. 

“Yes. what do you need?” he pressed, mind becoming even more focused on the prospect of a nice cuppa. 

“It's Crowley, angel, what the hell is happening with you?” the voice called Crowley asked, sounding confused and very much worried. 

“Nothing, Crowley, I’m perfectly fine. Bye.” he bit out, slamming the phone down and lumbering over to the kitchen. The phone began to ring again and again, but he needed tea. 

He set the kettle on blindly out of muscle memory, and got down his favorite mug. He grabbed a tea bag and dropped it in the mug, running a hand through his hair as he waited for the water to boil. He practically snarled at the perpetually ringing phone. He angrily trudged back to the phone as the kettle continued to heat. He snatched up the device once again. 

“What?” he asked, barley containing his fury. 

“You don't sound like yourself Aziraphale, I’m… concerned, tell me what’s going on right now!” the voice named Crowley practically shouted, not helping Aziraphale’s sensitive ears.

“If you must know,” the angel grit his teeth, and sounded as if he was about to explode, “I have just woken up, and I JUST WANT SOME FUCKING TEA.” he swore into the phone, growing rather impatient. 

“Did you just-” the other line began, dumbfounded.

“So. Stop. Calling.” Aziraphale threatened to the faceless man on the other end. He slammed the phone down once more and almost jogged back into the kitchen.

Kettle. Water. Mug. tea. Tea. TEA. 

He let the water steep, staring at the cup intensely. When the tea was fully done, he gulped it down scolding his mouth and throat. He didn't flinch once. To finish off the tea he threw the bag in his mouth and chewed aggressively. As he swallowed the bag he put more water on the stove. More tea. All he needed was more tea and he would be fine. The burning would stop. The discoloration on his hands and feet would go. 

Wait. 

Aziraphale seemed to snap back violently, properly looking down at his hands in shock. His fingers and arms were significantly longer than he remembered, and he was quite sure he didn't have claws before. His hands and wrists were stained a dark color from the tips of his fingers to where his arm was swallowed by his sleeve. He shakily unbuttoned his dress shirt sleeve and rolled it up to his elbow. He stared in horror as the color faded into his normal skin tone about two thirds down his forearm. Down at his feet the story was the same, elongated clawed toes stretched in the ruins of his favorite shoes. 

The kettle roared and whistled and that pulled Aziraphale out of his examination. In the reflection of the pristine brass he saw not two, but nine eyes staring back at him in horror. He poured the water in the mug with trembling claws, setting in another tea bag. He very calmly walked into the bathroom he had in the living area of the shop, and found the mirror. Nine eyes. Nine, black and white eyes. No pupils of course. Then there was the horns. Two horns that curved up towards the sky. 

He hesitantly touched his transformed face, making sure he was seeing correctly. He watched in the mirror as the eyes blinked in a synchronized wave. He flexed the clawed hand in front of his face, then held it to his chest. He felt tears start to fall, finally penetrating the dam of shock and adrenaline. Two very clear and sensible thoughts entered his mind at once. 

One, he was a horrid, dreadful, and disgusting monster. Two, Crowley couldn’t, under any circumstances, see him like this. 

He all but sprinted to the outdated phone and dialed Crowley as fast as he could. He almost cried when he began to hear the answering machine before Crowley picked up. 

“Hello? Crowley?” he asked desperately, his voice shaking and out of breath. 

“Angel? Explain. Right now.” Crowley demanded, sounding a mix of worry and anger.

“I uh, can’t really explain all that well dear.” Aziraphale croaked, what had he planned to say? ‘Oh I’ve transformed into a horrid beast but don't come over?’

“I’m coming over.” Crowley said matter of factly, and Aziraphale’s heart ran cold. 

“No need to do that Crowley! Everything is perfectly fine here! Nothing is wrong and I’m perfectly normal.” he rushed out, hearing Crowley pause with a jingling of keys. 

“You don't sound right, and you Cursed at me earlier.” Crowley protested into the phone angrily. 

“I did…?” Aziraphale asked softly, more to himself than to Crowley. 

“you don’t remember?! I knew I should’ve checked in earlier. I’m on my way.” 

“No please Crowley don’t. I’m begging you please? Just don't come over-” the other line went dead as he heard an engine starting up. He panicked and started to look for places to hide. He miracles a closet by his desk and curled inside, locking the door from the inside and nestling in giant blankets, burying himself. 

Aziraphale began to weep. He felt like a cowardly child, anxiety rising in his chest. In the dark space his eyes glowed and light fell on the tears pooling in his hands. Black. Black tears. The tears only fall heavier after that. That book, that stupid, stupid book. He should have realized, should have felt its presence. He was a fool and he paid the price for it. He never wanted Crowley to see anything like this. Imagine what it would do to his friend, seeing a horrid creature, being reminded of days so long ago. He had to stay hidden to protect Crowley, Crowley was number one priority. 

He heard the shop’s door handle rattle before it just bust open, Crowley no doubt just coming in with a demonic miracle. He quieted his sobs as he heard the tap of snake skin shoes on dusty wooden boards. It was obvious where he was hiding and he knew it. When Crowley tried to set his hand on the handle to the closet door he recoiled and blessed under his breath, the door was holy. 

-

“Zira, I know you’re in there.” Crowley said, taking a seat outside and locking the shop up once more. 

“I’m… not coming out of here.” the angel hiccuped through the door, voice meek and thick with emotion. What the he- heav- what on Earth was going on?

“Just tell me what’s going on angel… I-I’m kinda worried here.” Aziraphale never keeps things from him, and he has certainly never Blessed something to keep him away. He was getting increasingly scared at being left in the dark. 

“There was a book…” the voice from the other side started slowly, “I didn't think anything of it.” 

Crowley stayed quiet in hopes that the angel would continue his explanation. He didn't.

“I tried to call you, since it's been a week or two since we last talked, but you… you didn’t answer, so I left for a week to travel… when you finally picked up…” Crowley began to take in the state of the shop. There was a large pillow on the ground next to a box holding books. There was a trail of disaster from the pillow to the phone and to the kitchen. Papers scattered, and were those Claw Marks? 

“When you picked up you didn't sound the same, you sounded like you were about to murder someone!” Crowley continued to stare at the mess, “You cursed at me angel, told me not to call again. The next time I hear you your voice is tiny and scared.” the demon shivered and looked back to the door, not daring to touch it.

“I’m sorry.” came the whisper from the inside, it sounded choked and full of tears, and it took all of his restraint not to say blessings be damned and try the door again. 

“Angel… I’m scared.” he finally said, his voice breaking, “I’m scared and in the dark and don't know what to do… the shop is a mess and nothing makes sense.” Crowley’s ears perked up at the noise of shifting in the closet. 

“The book it… it was cursed, or something of the sort.” there was a sniffle on the other side. 

“So what happened, did it affect you? Are you alright?!” Crowley began to panic all over again.

“It did affect me Crowley.”

“Zira please let me see you, please let me know you’re alright. You’re scaring me a great deal here.” Crowley felt lots of emotion building in his rapid chest, heart and lungs beginning to work overtime on him.   
“I don't want to hurt you, I don't want you to see what I have become my dear.”

“I think it will kill me if you don't angel, please. Please.” he pleaded. Crowley felt as the blessings were thrown from the door and evaporated with a shiver. 

The closet door creaked open eerily and inside sat a pile of blankets, presumably covering Aziraphale. He pushed the door open further and took the corner of a blanket, bracing himself for the worst. He lifted it slightly to see a clawed dark hand. It flinched back rather quickly, so Crowley found the blanket that would be covering Aziraphale’s head. He pulled the blanket off to find nine terrified eyes searching his face. 

Crowley stared in shock at the angel before him. He slowly uncovered the rest and examined him fully. Stretched arms, horns, eyes. What the hell had that book done to his angel? He carefully took a hand and held it, trying to put on a smile through the sudden relief and emotion. 

“I’m sorry Crowley… I look hideous… I didn't want you to see but-”

“Hush, come out here.” Crowley led him by the hand back to the sofa. Aziraphale tried to hide his face at all times, and Crowley kept his touches feather light. 

“I was out for three weeks?” Aziraphale finally spoke, now covering his face with a throw pillow. He was trembling, but to be fair Crowley was pale and spacing out. 

“Uh yeah, haven’t heard from you since then…” he kept looking to the clawed hands, the sharp horns. 

“Stop staring please.” the meek voice piped up from under the pillow, three eyes showing from the shadows. Crowley shifted his gaze to the floor. 

“Has it affected your brain? Anymore than our phone chat?” Crowley asked, very much afraid of the answer. 

“It’s hard to focus, to understand things… when you called me the first two times I didn't remember you. I didn't know who was calling.” Aziraphale’s breathing quickened slightly. 

Crowley wished he could go over and wrap his slender arms around the angel. To help him in some way. He had to get rid of this curse and soon, before it developed anymore. This could just be the first stage. He said none of this to his counterpart. 

“We should get that human, book girl, witch. She knows things.” Crowley said absently, staring at his feet.


	2. Sin City

Aziraphale woke once more. The last thing he remembered was tea. He didn't want that anymore. He crawled off the couch and looked around the dark bookshop. 3:00, no one in sight, silent. His long arms scraped against the floor as he stalked across the wooden boards. Hungry. He was starving. He needed food. Fast. 

Inside the kitchen he scrapped apart the cupboards, even tearing off a door from its hinges before finding a tin of biscuits. He devoured the pink frosted delights and threw aside the tin. Still hungry. He ransacked the fridge, finding the jackpot. Steak. Juicy, raw, bloody. Delicious. He heard a noise from the doorway and paused from his feast. 

Glancing over, large steak bleeding from his mouth, he saw the outline of someone illuminated by the fridge light. He backed up with a snarl, clutching the steak in his large claws. He felt his eyes bulge in the low light to find the figure. His razor teeth tearing at the meat. 

“Aziraphale?” a voice asked, the same stupid voice from the phone. What was its name?

“Back.” he commanded, taking another bloody sample of the meat, he could feel juices slipping through his fingers. Delightful. 

“Its Crowley, Aziraphale. Your friend.” the man stepped into the light of the refrigerator, the dramatic shift leaving shadows on his sharp features. He’d seen that face before, but he didn't care. He was still hungry. 

He devoured the rest of the meat quickly, licking his lips clean. He then stepped forward into the light, standing just over the other man. 

“Crowley…” he tested the name on his vocal cords, the name coming out half speech half growl.

“Yes, angel, do you remember me?” the man asked, not quite cowering but close to it. The smell of fear, and of campfire smoke. 

“Friend…” his head throbbed in pain and he shrunk back. His stomach gave another pang of hunger and his head snapped back to the fridge.

“Hungry!” he bellowed, making a dive into the icebox, it shook and trembled under the force. Raw bacon, chicken, pork. Alcohol. He shoveled food into his mouth, guzzling wine and growling in pleasure. He climbed from the refrigerator and looked back at the man standing by the sink. 

“Full.” he smiled wickedly, his lips and teeth stained with wine and blood, hands covered in delightful juices. He licked them clean with his long tongue, and continued to stare at the man. 

“Angel are you even in there?” the man’s voice was on the verge of trembling. 

“Angel?” he asked, leaning forward on his long arms and claws, his legs planted firmly on the floor. The other man’s scent was drawing him closer. 

“Yes, angel. My angel.” ‘Crowley’ gulped. 

The monstrosity began to make his way over to the strange man, claws scraping up the floor. He got close, close enough to touch. 

-

Crowley held his breath as the angel’s clawed hand came to grab his chin. His hair was slightly ruffled as the monster began to sniff and examine his head. He stood stalk still as the creature then licked a stripe up the side of his face. Hot breath ghosted his ear. 

“Tastes….” the thing in front of him seemed to struggle with words, “demon.” it finished, all nine eyes meeting his, staring into his soul. 

“Yes, good. I’m demon, you angel.” he saw a flash in the creatures eyes, desperately hoping something got through. 

“Hungry.” it grumbled, eyeing Crowley up and down. He felt himself shiver as the clawed hand rested just below his neck, firmly planted him in place by his collar bone. 

“Don't make me contain you Aziraphale,” he warned dangerously. 

“Fine…” the creature grumbled, removing the hand but not moving away. 

Crowley watched as the creature swayed, his eyes growing heavy. 

“Tired?” He asked, his mind getting used to the bazaar situation. He started to connect the dots in his head.

-

He felt exhausted, and the strange man was now asking him questions, but strange man was also warm. He fell forward slightly, trapping the demon called Crowley against the counter and sink. His head was burning again, but his body was freezing. Ice cold. He shivered and growled, not wanting to use words but wanting to make his point heard. 

This was unsuccessful.

“Can you still speak Zira?” the demon asked, worry etched in his features. 

“Hurts.” he grumbled, almost a whine. Take away the hurt. Take away the cold. Hurts. Pain. 

“Will you let me go and follow?” the demon asked, more concern in his voice. 

Aziraphale nodded and backed up enough for the demon to slide past. He followed as they moved into the backroom once more, Crowley retrieving blankets and laying them in sort of a nest shape, the large pillow he had woken up on from the first time in the middle. The demon motioned for him to climb in and he did. He relaxed into the pillows and blankets, and Crowley pulled a quilt over him. 

His pains slowly eased, and the warmth numbed his mind. The demon stepped out of the room and Aziraphale heard him dialing a number on the phone. He listened in to the soft voice, sensitive ears focusing. 

“Witch human. Anathema. Yes I know it’s late, listen.” Crowley practically hissed.

“It’s Aziraphale. He touched some sort of book and now he’s… different. He doesn’t remember who he is, and he looks different. Lots of eyes.” 

“No no no not yet but… yes… no… can I bring him over? Well fuck I don't know if he’ll fit well in the Bentley. Oh alright. Bye.” the phone was set back down and Crowley walked back in the room. 

“Crowleyyyy…” he growled out, burying himself deeper in blankets. 

“Yes Aziraphale?” he asked, crouching beside the nest. The glowing eyes from the shadows all focused on the demon. 

“Tired… sleep.” they grumbled, muffled by the softness. 

“Then go to sleep.” Crowley said, wondering what the problem was.

“Crowllleeyyyyyy” he growled again, poking his head and arm from under the nest. 

“What?” Crowley asked, looking confused as ever. He was immensely surprised when he was dragged inside the nest with one large claw, then trapped to the monster’s chest with said claw. There was a low grumble of satisfaction, and then the sound of soft snoring. 

“What have I gotten myself into…?” He asked to deaf ears. He was never going to escape this hold, so might as well relax. 

-

Crowley woke to a large chest, and a clawed hand cradling his back. He peaked out of the blanket nest he was trapped in and saw the beginnings of dawn. He brought a hand up and carefully poked Aziraphale on the cheek. 

“Aziraphale... Aziraphale we have to get up.” he muttered gently, stirring the beast.

“Warm… demon…” The angel rumbled, eyes opening slowly. 

“We’re going to the witch human’s house today, are you hungry?” Crowley began to carefully move away from the angel, crawling out from under the blankets. 

He stood and walked into the kitchen, forgetting how absolutely destroyed it was from the night before. The monster followed closely behind, and Crowley swore he was at least a foot taller, if not more. 

“Not ... hungry…” he mumbled, resting his forehead on Crowley’s shoulder. 

“Well then, lets get on the road early.” Crowley turned to look at his friend. 

“Noooo….” he growled, “Stay.” 

“We have to go see Anathema.” Crowley said sternly. What was with all of his moods? First angry, then hungry, now he wants to stay here and what? Lay around? 

“Tired…” Aziraphale whined, claws wrapping around Crowley’s midsection. 

“Fine! Then you can sleep in the car on the way there.” Crowley said, willing both of them into the Bentley, the angel into the backseat with some blankets. 

“This angel will be the death of me I swear.” he started the engine and began the drive to Tadfield.   
-  
The drive was quiet aside from the occasional swerve of the car and protest from the backseat. They made it to Tadfield by the afternoon and Crowley was on edge. What if his angel would never be back to normal? What if he would be stuck growing more and more… not him? What if he lost his speech? Crowley stepped on the gas to get to the little cottage.

When he pulled up to the house he had worked himself up quite considerably. All that had happened was rushing back to him in waves, shock wearing off so quick it could have snapped his neck.

He knocked on the door with a little more force than intended, but felt it was justified. He saw the Bentley shaking and assumed that was Aziraphale waking up. Anathema opened the door and glanced around him. 

“Where is he?” she asked. As soon as she had there was a low growl from the car.

“Crowley!” it shouted, the car shaking even more. 

The demon rushed over and opened the door for the angel inside, stepping back so he could unfold himself from the backseat. His sleeves were torn where his arms had gotten too big for them, and his shoes and blazer were nowhere to be seen. The eyes squinted in the sun and his clawed fingers dragged in the grass as he headed towards the only familiar face. Anathema gazed on in fascination. 

The overgrown angel leaned on Crowley, almost toppling the thin man over. 

“Lets get him inside, I have a room made up.” Anathema commanded, opening the door wide and catching the grateful look Crowley shot her before ushering the angel inside.

Crowley got up to the room made for Aziraphale then let out a sigh of relief. The angel immediately collapsed on the bed and fell asleep, so he slipped out of the room to meet with the witch human. 

“Tell me the whole story.” Anathema demanded, putting the kettle on. 

Crowley spilled the events that took place (omitting a few of the more… vulnerable details) and stared at the cup of tea set in front of him. The witch seemed to sit in thought for awhile, slowly sipping tea and muttering to herself. 

“This behavior he’s having, there’s a pattern.” she spoke suddenly, brows furrowed in thought. 

“Pattern?” Crowley asked, he desperately wanted some answers. 

“First he was angry, then hungry, and now you say he’s just low energy? Sleeping a bunch?” Anathema asked, and Crowley nodded, not understanding a bit of what she was getting at. 

“Something like Wrath, Gluttony, and Sloth?” she had a twinkle in her eye as she finished off her tea. 

“Sins…” Crowley practically hissed. “Do you think he’ll go through all of em?” 

“I think that when he goes through all the sins something will happen, and I don't think it will be good.” she set more water on the stove.

“Do we try to stop him then?” Crowley asked, trying not to let the desperation show through his voice. 

“I don't know, maybe we should just let him go through it until the end and see what happens.” Anathema thought for a moment.

“You think something bad will happen, and you jussst want to wait to sssee what it isss!?” Crowley spat, temper getting the better of him.

“You said there was a book.” 

“Yesss but Aziraphale didn't tell me anything about it, jussst that it was there, delivered with some othersss.” Crowley began to hiss, the helplessness of the situation getting under his skin as well.

“Did you check with the mail company so see who sent it?” Anathema asked. Oh. that should have been obvious. 

“No…” he grumbled reluctantly, eyes rolling under his glasses. 

“I’ll stay here and watch Aziraphale while you go and check with the company then. This is base so report back with any findings yes?” She sipped from her second cup and shooed Crowley out with a look.


	3. The Mail Cult

Crowley was in the Bentley with his forehead pressed firmly against the steering wheel. His hands held a white knuckle grip at the ten and two positions as he composed himself before entering the post office. 

You see, the post office, or really the people who started providing services to send mail, were a cult. Yes, you heard that right. Crowley had started the little gathering, people running mail places, to inconvenience the humans. Mail service was pretty unreliable. All the process of correct addresses and correct amount of stamps, wondering if your letter would make it or get lost, every post delivery full of inconvenient bills and junk. But the thing is, like with satanists, this cult was irritating. They were good at their job. 

Crowley wrenched the door open and stepped into the headquarters, fresh suit and styled hair making an immediate impression. The clerk at the front desk looked him up and down, a bit puzzled as to why anyone looking like this would walk into a Post Service Headquarters.

“Can I help you?” she asked, looking him up and down one last time. 

“I need to speak with someone in charge of records or shifts.” Crowley droned, looking around bored out of his mind. 

“Name? Sir?” She asked, skeptical.

“Anthony J Crowley.” He said, making eye contact behind his glasses. 

“Oh, Mr. Crowley!” she practically squealed, her face going pale. “I’m terribly sorry, I’ll get him here at once.” 

As the clerk rushed down the hall in clacking high heels Crowley contemplated the situation. He decided that whoever mailed that package would be dead when this was all over. Decidedly so. He had lost his angel, all memory gone, and they had caused Aziraphale such fear and grief. No one did that without demonic consequences. 

The clicking of high heels returned with tapping of dress shoes. He looked up from where he had been spacing out to see a short, plump man speed walking towards him. By the sweat practically leaking off his forehead and his disheveled, thinning hair you would think he was nervous. That would be a correct assumption. His pudgy features spread into a hesitant smile that was too wide. 

“Ah! Mr. Crowley, how nice of you to drop by.” He greeted, taking the slim hand in his thick ones and shaking a bit too enthusiastically. 

“I need some information on a package that was sent, who the sender was, where it was sent from, whatever.” Crowley cut in sharply, not bothering to conceal as he wiped his hand on his trousers. 

“Of course, right this way.” the man huffed, bustling off past the front desk.

Crowley’s long legs easily kept up with the man’s short strides, has hands firmly buried in his pockets. He would find out who the bastard was… he’d skin them alive. No, he could think of better punishments than that. He continued to stalk down the long hallway until they stopped at a door. 

“In here you can access all our data, records of shifts, mailing times, etc.” he said, and rushed off without a second glance. 

Mail systems probably don't usually work like this, however, Crowley thought they should. So they did. No one got in the way when he needed to help Aziraphale. He entered the bland room to find a computer and a few filing cabinets.

Accessing the computer was a breeze, and he typed in the package number, finding where it was sent from. London, and the name of a bar across town. He found whose shift it was to pick up the mail from there, and then whose job it was to deliver that package that day. Both the same man. In the database his address was listed. Time for interrogation. He closed down the computer and sped down the hallway, shooting the secretary a glance of rage before getting into the Bentley. 

He ripped through London streets on a mission, scheming and plotting as all demons do. Though usually, demons don't plot to harm the people who harmed angels. Usually they took said person of for a beer and probably tempted them to do something even more stupid later. Crowley, on the other hand, was ready to boil someone alive. There was the annoying sound of his phone interrupting these thoughts however, so he picked it up swiftly.

“Come back to the cottage.” Anathema’s voice was urgent and serious. Crowley stepped on the gas and made an impossible U-turn, going upwards of 180.

“What’s wrong? What’s happening?” he asked, narrowly missing another car. 

“Aziraphale, he seems to be in a lot of pain, and he’s been nonstop asking for you, he won’t calm down.” Crowley could hear noise in the background. It sounded like horrible sobs and growls, thumping and thrashing. 

“I’ll be right there, I found the delivery man and where the package came from. All I need is to ask him a few questions, and track down this son of a bitch.” Crowley grit his teeth as he drove faster, dodging in and out of traffic. 

Crowley hung up and found himself racing down Tadfield streets, until he parked in the cottage’s driveway. He threw open the door to hear the moans and wails leaving the upstairs, turning his blood cold. Running up to the door and ripping it open, he flew up the stairs out of breath as the noises got louder. 

“Crowley, where is Crowley!?” came a full sentence from Aziraphale. His breath caught in his chest when he stepped into the room, Anathema trying to calm the beast. 

“Angel, I’m right here.” Crowley called, stepping by the bed. The first thing he saw was the red. Blood. 

“Crowley.” Aziraphale whimpered in pain, moving closer. “It hurts everything hurts and I look dreadful. It burns!” he cried, shivering. 

“It’s okay ‘Zira, it’s okay, I'm here.” Crowley shushed, soothing a hand over his friend’s hair. 

The blood was definitely Aziraphale’s, oozing out all over the bed sheets from scars that marred his fair skin. The contrast was sickly and Crowley felt he could pass out. He noticed wings were out and flapping frantically, eyes blinking rapidly, and body writhing around in pain. There was blood on the angel’s hands as well, but he couldn't tell if that was from trying to stop the bleeding or the cause of it. 

“What happened angel?” he asked, holding the angel’s now larger head in his hands. 

“I-I don't know,” he struggled to speak, every word coming out garbled and fear stricken. “I woke up and, and, my own hands were scratching at my sides, my arms, my legs… Crowley I’m scared.” he cried as fresh black tears sprang from his strange eyes. 

“I know you are, I am too, alright? But i-it’s going to be fine, You are going to be fine.” Crowley pressed his forehead to the angel’s, careful to avoid any eyes. 

“Now ‘Zira, I need you to answer something really important.” Crowley said, looking directly into his eyes, “What was the book like? Describe the book.” 

“It was l-leather bound, dark and heavy. When I touched it, I burnt all over like I was in hell fire… I passed out from the pain… it hurt so much.” Aziraphale continued to shift and shiver. It sounded as if the angel was barely containing screams every time he moved, but he couldn't stop moving. 

“I swear to Somebody that whoever the fuck did this to you will pay Aziraphale.” Crowley felt rage seep into his very soul. He saw a flash of fear and pain cross the angel’s face.

“Crowley don't leave, please, I need you. I….” Aziraphale started to look paler, color draining from his face. “I… please…” 

And with that the angel collapsed. Crowley panicked. 

Anathema tried to remove him from the room but to no avail, he was not leaving his friend’s side for anything. He clung to Aziraphale like his life depended on it, and the witch had to convince him just to let go so she could touch him. She needed to heal his wounds. 

Crowley didn't know he was crying until he felt the tears hit his hands. He was terrified, helpless, and useless. He sat on a chair in the corner and silently let the tears drip from his eyes, not bothering to put his glasses back on. He didn't care anymore, he just wanted his angel back and not in pain. He watched as Anathema carefully cleaned and dressed the wounds, muttering to herself and fully consumed in her work. He let his head fall to his hands, barely containing a wave of sorrow, worry, and panic that washed over him tenfold. Why had he clawed like that? Ripping his own skin? Tearing himself apart? 

Anathema finished with Aziraphale and left the room with the bloody bedding to give Crowley some privacy. The demon lifted himself weakly from the chair and lay gently next to the angel on the bed, taking one clawed and blackened hand in both of his. He felt more tears seep from his eyes and run across his face. He was an A-grade mess wasn’t he? eyes grow heavy as his hands gently fell back on the bed, still holding Aziraphale’s between. He was exhausted. All his muscles released their tension as he melted into the stained mattress, eyes closing. 

-

Aziraphale awoke to hurt all over. He looked around blearily to see the demon… Crowley? asleep next to him, when had he come back? The angel sat up and barely contained a scream of pain. Okay, not moving it is. He growled in frustration, everything sore and it hurt to move, stuck in place. He wished he could move, wished he was okay, envious of the seemingly fine demon asleep next to him. He moved an arm with great strength, and pulled the demon to his chest, effectively trapping him. He heard a yelp of surprise as Crowley woke up. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, looking up to the angel’s eyes. Confused, scared, and disoriented. 

“No… move…” he tried, words not forming how he wanted them to. 

“You can’t move? Yes Aziraphale you are hurt and shouldn’t move.” Aziraphale growled at not being able to communicate.

“You… move… speak.” he tried again. “I… don't...” 

Understanding flashed over Crowley’s eyes. 

“I can move and speak, and you can’t. So that’s why you’re holding me? Because I can move?” Crowley wiggled in his grasp and Aziraphale tightened his hold. 

“Not... fair.” he protested, growing more distraught by the moment. 

“You’re jealous.” Crowley stated, fear holding his tone quiet. “Envious.” 

Aziraphale only growled in response and glared down at the demon. The demon should stop talking. It seemed to quiet him. 

Just then, there was a sort of flash, and a popping sound new person in the room, and he didn't like them. They stood straight with hands clasped in front, purple eyes looking through him. Crowley also seemed to tense, not liking the person. 

“My, My, what a mess you have here!” the person chirped, grating on Aziraphale’s ears.


End file.
